Ridley’s super-rich dad probably hired a private coach, because her form is even better than I remember.
Of course, she has every advantage. Hunter’s parents may be affluent, but they’re only doctor and lawyer rich. Ridley’s dad is next level— he’s hotel magnate rich. We’ve all benefited though. Mr. Rushmore bought us our own special activity bus—one for the men’s teams and one for the women’s. He’s probably responsible for recruiting Weston Ford, too.
Our new coach makes no comment about Ridley, only looking at his watch and scribbling on his clipboard.
One by one, he goes down the roster and makes each girl demonstrate her strongest event.
When he barks out my name, I barely hear it at first, I’m so lost in his hands and the way his big, strong knuckles forcefully grip the pencil. And the way his brow furrows as he writes, the way his jaw ripples while he watches each swimmer’s form.
“Shermer! Breaststroke! Fifty!”
The breaststroke. Of course. My worst event. Why?
I look to plead with him to pick a different stroke, but he’s not even looking at me. His eyes are on his clipboard, and he’s just waiting for me to hit the water so he can push a button on his watch.
I dive in and get it over with. It takes about a hundred years to swim to the other end of the pool and back. If Coach Ford were not waiting on me, I would have been bored out of my skull.
I hop out of the pool and keep my eye on him for any sign of how I performed. I see nothing—nothing except one eyebrow move maybe a millimeter. Barely there, but I saw it.
And because I can’t leave well enough alone, I stand there dripping while filling the silence with my babbling.
“I’m the weak link in the breaststroke. I suck so bad at it.”
Slowly, Coach Ford slides his pencil back behind his ear and stalks toward me. I swallow and try to tamp down the panic rising in my chest. Is he going to shout at me?
When he reaches me, he clasps the clipboard with both arms over his midsection and stares me down.
I might melt on the spot. If I were not dripping wet from the pool, I might think I was turning to molten liquid under his fierce brown stare. Brown…with flecks of gold. Oh lord, help me. He’s so pretty.
He raises one hand and points a finger so close to my face, I could easily lean forward and suck it into my mouth if I wanted to.
I don’t want to. Do I? What I want is to dive back into the pool and hide in the drain at the bottom of the deep end until everyone leaves.
He does not shout at me. Rather, he speaks calmly and with authority. “No one. On my team. Is a weak link. You got that, Shermer?”
I get it so hard I feel it thrumming in the darkest, wettest place of my swimsuit.
I swallow and nod.
He makes it worse by saying, “Excuse me? I didn’t hear that.”
“Yes,” I squeak quietly.
“Yes what?”
Yes what? What does he want me to say?
I suppose… “Yes, sir?”
“Are you asking me or telling me you understand?”
I clear my throat and lift my chin as I spit out. “I understand, sir!”
He nods, then moves on to the next task.
* * *
I’m so shaken by him that my stupid brain dreams about him that night. In it, Coach Ford is spanking me with a clipboard, punctuating every slap with a whistle. I startle myself awake to find I’m rubbing my groin against the mattress to create delicious friction. An involuntary tightening and releasing is accompanied by extreme relief and pleasure crashing through my body.